my sunday pier

All these documents open on monster.  Getting dizzy.  As Jackie feeds his breakfast, I have coffee abrew at my back, ready for a day of “project R.” Will only address book project, verses, when project R’s ready for release.  Stanford, in sight.  Just a class or two, as a visiting professor/writer, or writer/professor.  That’s all I want.  Winemaking.. should go by the winery, taste my barrel, see how it’s changed.  Should I put the tip money towards fruit then–  No.  Not changing course.  Getting book out there.  In fact, that other POSSIBLE opportunity make suffice for winemaking aims.  Speaking of which, going to do some winemaking studying today.  I’ll bring 1 book with me when I go to Starbucks later, to work on project R.

Maybe I don’t need coffee this morning, already energized like this.  Then, hit a wall.  Not a “block,” just writing stalls.  Nothing around me pushing, suddenly.  Know what I have 2do today, wrote it for Self, then I stop.  I should stop.  [8am]


Mike came back to his keyboard, ready for a delivery.. of some kind.  Kelly, away on business trip.  He wanted to be away, writing, somewhere.  He needed that newness for his writing.  But couldn’t leave, not now.  40 hours each week in wine’s wrap, two night classes at the JC.  He’d have to write, wait.. Write his way there.  He thought he might have too much on his plate, but quickly shed that preoccupation.  The more obligations–no, he hated that word–bookings, gigs, whatever, the more material he had to put in book.  Was it a book he was working on?  He didn’t know.  It was something that had shape, pseudo-shape, some semblance of coherent curve.  He kept writing.  A winemaker, just producing his first entirely solo vintage.  The winemaker was more broke than the most struggled college student, than any single parent, or that’s what winemaker felt.  He didn’t have a tasting Room, but a space in a collective off Sonoma’s Square, his friend’s father’s spot.  He was one of seven labels poured behind counter.  If this didn’t work, he always had insurance awaiting his return.  He’d rather flip burgers, he thought.

Mike stopped at 857 words.  He tired of writing about risk.  But wasn’t that inescapable, he thought.  His Sunday, a Tuesday.  He thought a drive out to Sonoma’s square sounded appealing, to see where winemaker’s tasting Room would be.  What kind of guests would come in, what they’d request, what they’d expect, bla bla.  He had papers to grade, he knew.  First time in over a year he was in that spot, with a colossal edifice of student responses on one side of his desk, pen on other.  Did he want to use a red pen, or black?  Blue?  Did it matter?  What did he have…  greenish blue.  That was different.  Mike needed difference.  He began with the first submission.  And there he was, for the first time in a year, with grading to do.  Only one class, though, for today.  The other section didn’t submit till later in the week.  After the first paragraph, he needed a break.  He took one.  With coffee.  Some mocha mix.



Knowing now, I’m not after a career in wine’s industry.  I’m a consummate consumer.  For the winemaking, I don’t know, really.  Today made a couple things clear to the writer.  That I’m just that, that’s what I really want–8 hours in MY office.  Writing.  Sipping Sauv Blanc now, here in base.  Needed Refresh, like an internet screen.  Reading the verse I this morning wrote.  Envisioning, again, that hotel Room fantasy.  On Road, writing, glass of something red on desk, next to legal pad, no laptop.  No music.  Just quiet, although I’d permit wave whispers through sliding glass window should I be by beach.

9:25pm, only now having dinner.  The day, draining me.  But, it’s behind.  This SB sip, putting me back on that island.  Fantasy.  Need another sip.  Tiring, eager for the morning mocha.  Completely incapable of writing anything holding gravity, animation.  Need to just clock out.  Now.  But first, sipping…  Back on island.  It’s the prose I blame.  Poetry antagonizes more innovation than paragraphs.  This form, shape.. stale.  Have to force Self to write, and I hate that.  What I typed earlier, about certain detach from this “industry,” following though.  Embracing what I always state, about living “the writer loving wine.” As that’s all that I am.  I’m not pretending to have the scientific acuity of a winemaker.  But I do have A palate, one I find legitimate.  So, if I do make wine, it’ll be from that platform.  And I’d need my sister as partner.  And she’s as much a consumer as this penner.  Leaving till 2morrow, where I’ll insert another verse.  Was so busy 2day, I barely touched the little pages.  Shame.  When I DO have that office, all I’ll do is be in front of page.  Putting some of 2day’s tip money [if I got any, can’t remember was so frenzied..] into the envelope.  Probably thought I forgot about that, no?  Well I didn’t.  It’s all for the office.  No more wasted days.  Honest time, 11:21p, and I need to think about sleep.  Not ‘cause I CAN’T write anymore…  Because I’m tired, quite SICK of my writing.  Bona sera.


7/7/12 – Saturday.  My Thursday.  Back in VIP section today.  Still depleted from yester’s shift.  Need coffee.  May still feel ripples from Sauv Blanc.  Where’s my little notebook?  Hate writing rushed like this.  I’m hunched over, not seated, with towel still around waste.  One day, I’ll have an office, won’t have to write like this.  Give me a second…

Yesterday’s gratuities, if I received any, into office envelope.  Need to print pages, still.  Usually upset with Self when I write out plans, but this morning I feel it’s rather invited, permission’d.  8:07a, with mocha.  Thoughts from 7/6, about not pursuing the wine world beyond the page, still with me.  Putting all eggs in that basket, and in mean’s time, looking for what I, THIS WRITER, can get from my tasks, be it in wine club area, behind main bar, on a cave tour, on the mountain, or doing some marketing mission for another winery.  What I can I get out of it, how can I make it work for me?  And it will.  Have to praise Dad for imparting that thought frame.  Many of my father’s words perch themselves about my daily perception, reaction.  Actually, I texted him yesterday about flying, what’s really involved in operating an aircraft, especially internationally.  I’ll talk to him tonight, I’m sure.  Have some questions prepared, introductory ones noted, then go from there.  I want to immerse mySelf in THAT world, much more than wine’s.  What Dad did throughout his career had significance, meaning, and the character that Dan is, was when in seat left, was never dismissive, never indifferent.  He and I think much alike, probably as he was a Philosophy major, and I the English/Creative Writing/Lit.  He appreciated what he saw, from 35,000+ feet aloft.  More to come, reader, and I couldn’t be more excited.  Why haven’t I tapped DPM’s mind before for pages?  Shame.

Ready for day.  Not shying from any character, don’t care how entitled they are.  And to be honest, everyone I poured for yesterday was kind, loving the wine, showing their appreciation; getting me closer to office.  Shooting for 500 words, won’t lie.  And yes, I felt it necessary to note word count, as I don’t usually do it, and I want any, all writers–REAL writers, not tech-dependent “wine bloggers”–to know that I’m always writing, that there’s nothing more about which I think, entertain, fantasize; And that I’m always ARMED with a concealable notebook, ready.  The mocha speaks, tells me to write faster.  And IF I get a lunch today, to complete just one verse.  16 lines/bars, minimum.  One thing I wanted to note here, and not in book, is how many sippers commented on how awesome my job must be, to pour wine in such an unspeakably scenic scene.  This elevated my mood, yesterday, I’ll truth-tell, and it made me switch to writer mode while pouring, thinking “How CAN I make this work for ME?”

The Sauv Blanc’s finally left.  I need to leave soon.  And I’m ready.  Attitude more than empowered.  I’m Self-knighted, on quest.  For what?  Pages.  Dialogue. Verses.  And when I’m in my office, with 8+ hours a day at page, who knows how many works I’ll have done in a month, a year, by the time Jackie’s in high school.  I’m different, already, than I was less than 24 ago.  I’m renewed, recharged.  Refreshed.  Ready.